Hi all, welcome back! My muses decided to visit me this week and I've written not one but two chapters! Here is the first one, the next one will be up in exactly 1 week from now. And that one comes with 2 very unexpected guests. Any bets? Let me know in the comments!

As always, thank you so so much all of you who are still reading this story, and those of you who are new to it. Especial shutout to my wonderful beta nightgigjo who has been magnificent, as always.

Now, enjoy! And let me know your thoughts in the comments.

Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

The Lying Detective - Part 1

Although St Barts' morgue was a centre point of life in Baker Street, Hermione had sparingly visited it. Death had always been alarmingly close throughout her life, and the fact that sooner or later she would end on one of those slabs Molly kept immaculate was something of which she did not need a reminder. Maybe wearing every colour under the sun was the only way of enduring such a job.

Molly and her pink jumpers had been sent home today and had been told to stay away for the rest of the week. This time it was an all too real body — she refused to call Mary a corpse — on the table, not someone who had faked his own death. But Hermione still needed to check.

Mycroft had arranged it. He had given her a look she could not define; pity and worry had adorned his features when she told him she wanted to see Mary, and somehow, she knew it was for her as much as it was for his brother. He had suggested she go to visit John instead. She refused. This was not about either of them, but about Mary. She could not bear the thought of Mary spending her last hours alone in a metal cage, waiting to be cremated. The elder Holmes had nodded and called Mike Stamford in front of her, and judging by Mycroft's answers, the other man had his doubts about letting her into the morgue. When he finally budged, Hermione was already at the door, wearing her scarf and coat.

Mike was waiting for her at the back of the hospital, in front of the door Sherlock typically used to get into Barts without crossing the building. He engulfed Hermione in a hug and squeezed her shoulders. "Are you sure, Hermione?"

She nodded.

Mike pushed his glasses up his nose and sighed. He was still sporting his natural kind smile, tinged with sadness. He turned and held the door open for her and walked towards the central morgue, only stopping in front of the double doors leading to it. Through the rounded windows, she could see one working station with a body. Instead of being inside of a body bag, a crisp white sheet was covering it.

"I couldn't put her in a bag." He said. "The guys from the home will be here at five in the afternoon, but no one is to come here until then."

Hermione made a little noise of understanding. She barely heard Mike telling her to ring him if she needed anything, her eyes fixed on the other side of the door. When he started to go, she called after him.

"Mike."

"Yes?"

"Go to John. He needs a friend now."

The doors closed behind her with the soft thud only fire doors made. Everything was quiet. Molly always kept a radio playing somewhere in the office, barely audible, but enough to quench the oppressive, deafening silence that seemed to reign. Death is quiet and inevitable, and silence is the only thing left in the aftermath. That, and the chemical smell of formaldehyde covering the stench of putrefaction. Reminding her what they had forgotten: karma rarely exists, and justice is a construct that doesn't abide by logical rules.

At first, Hermione seemed unable to order her legs to move towards the slab. When she did, she took one of the metal chairs from the desk and dragged it across the floor. From this distance, she could see the outline of the body beneath the sheet and tentatively reached for one corner. She let out a shaky breath and grabbed the edge of the table. It was freezing, and she got angry at Mike for letting Mary rest on top of a cold surface. Mary had always hated the cold. She looked down at the body, grasped the sheet where the hip was and lifted it enough as to find what she was looking for. The small black and grey daisy with blurred lines that Mary had gotten when she was a 16-year-old runaway. It was a miracle she had walked out of the tattoo parlour with just the tattoo and not hepatitis, Mary had said laughing. She had meant to cover it up for ages, but she never did, and Hermione had joked she just liked her misshaped flower.

Until that moment, Hermione had held the tiniest of hopes that this was another of Mary's stunts. I wouldn't care, Mary, I would welcome you back in a heartbeat. It would be just you and me again.

Two tears splashed against the table and the sheet. Hermione covered the tattoo again and wiped her cheeks, fruitlessly. An unsteady hand lowered the sheet and then Mary's face was out in the open. At the funeral home, they would dress her, they would clean and style her blonde hair, they would put on makeup to cover the unnatural pallor. Mike had done his best to keep the damage to a minimum, but she knew the surgery plastic cap was covering the line where the saw had cut the bone. Hermione sat down and sneaking her hand under the sheet, she took Mary's cold and rigid hand in hers.

"You know Mary. We never talked about death. How odd. I mean, we played tag with death day in day out, it should have come up at some point." Hermione laughed and grabbed Mary's hand harder. Please, squeeze me back. "I want to be angry at you, so badly. Angry because you left, because you went after someone who didn't matter, for jumping in front of a bullet."

"These are my last moments with you before I never see you again. I could see you again, you know. I could get a pensive and revisit my memories of you. But you never liked magic. I cannot promise I won't show them to Rosie when she's older. I think she'd like that. I feel so guilty for not being there. Since yesterday I've been replaying the day, thinking if I could have done something. John probably thinks I could. And maybe this time he is right. He has every right to. I should have been there."

"I am sorry, Mary." Hermione sobbed. She put her forehead on the slab. "I am so sorry. Forgive me please, forgive me."

Hermione did not know how much time she was in the position. At some point, her tears dried up, and her grip on Mary's hand relaxed, but never let go. Only when she heard footsteps along the corridor outside the morgue, she stood up. She bent down, kissed Mary's cheek and covered her before scurrying into the office at the back. From there, she saw two men check the records and carefully put her in their stretcher.

And then there was silence again, as if neither Mary nor she had been there.

Hermione arrived at Baker Street after leaving the hospital. A dimmed glow from the floor lamp was the only light that could be seen from the street. Inside, Mrs Hudson's flat had the door open, but the rooms were empty. She took the stairs knowing Sherlock would already know it was her coming and involuntarily quickened her pace. She found him sitting on his chair, with his head between his hands. He slowly raised his head when she entered. Despite the clean suit and the slightly damp hair, his eyes were rimmed with red, whether from crying or lack of sleep she could not say. Sherlock made no move. He just stared at her, in silence. He sniffed, and his nose moved slightly. He had surely caught the smell of morgue clinging to her.

"Why?"

Hermione gulped. "I needed to be sure."

Sherlock nodded and wiggled his hands before burying them in his hair and dragging them across his face and then fixing his gaze on her again.

"I texted you."

"I… I was outside when I heard the gunshot. I… I fainted."

Sherlock stood up and walked to her. Only then did she realised her hands, her whole body was trembling. Hermione shook her head and started crying again as soon as Sherlock reached her.

"I woke up thinking it might not be true, that maybe she had just gone to the hospital. I needed to know, Sherlock, I needed to say goodbye."

Hermione was sobbing now, and Sherlock hugged her against him. He cradled her head in his chest, and Hermione grabbed his shirt in her fists until it hurt. Sherlock took them both back to his armchair. He sat and dragged her with him, securing her in his lap and never letting go. Beneath her hands, his rib cage moved rhythmically. Hermione looked up and saw the tears slowly falling from his eyes, eyes filled with such guilt it tore her insides as much as the bullet that had killed Mary. She knew that no matter how many times she told him it had been Mary's choice to save him, his own life had never held such a value for him. Hermione pressed her lips against his. Sherlock moved back for an instant but dived back down for a deeper kiss. His hands tightened around her and scurried under her t-shirt, his mouth insistent and demanding with the desperate need of someone grasping for the last pieces of reality. Hermione opened her mouth and felt in her tongue Sherlock's moan, and with every stroke of his fingers over her skin, she heard less and less the voice telling her she should be somewhere else. Between her and Sherlock, they moved her body to fully straddle him, and the feeling of his arousal made her hate herself. Hermione bit his lip hard and fought against him to rip off his jacket and shirt. Sherlock responded likewise.

They had always excelled at self-destruction.

Their movements were uncoordinated and frantic. They were both using each other, and for the first time, there was an unspoken agreement about it. There was nothing romantic about any of it, just a way of scaring their ghosts.

But those same ghosts came back with sunrise.

Hermione had slept fitfully, and the other side of the bed had moved so many times before stilling she had lost count. She had finally looked at Sherlock, and she wished he could stay like this forever. He had always seemed more peaceful asleep than awake. For the first time in all the times they had slept together, she had been the one to leave. As she got up from the mattress, Sherlock had turned, reaching for her. Hermione closed her eyes and felt close to crying again. If there had even been a time for them, it wasn't now.

Pulling her T-shirt over her head, she left the place, fully intending to be with the person who had just lost his wife.

Hermione let herself in with the key Mary had given her the day John and her had bought the house. Mary's yellow coat hanging in the peg by the door felt like a punch in the stomach.

"What are you doing here?"

The voice had come from the living room. John was sitting on the couch, with a tumbler in his hand and a half-empty bottle in front of him. Hermione tugged at her scarf and took a couple of steps towards him.

"I came to see you. And Rosie. Where is she?"

"With Molly. She has fully embraced her duties as godmother, you know. She was a good decision."

Hermione stood there, not knowing what to do. "It's not that simple, John. Not for me."

John snorted and approached her. "I didn't know Sherlock's cock was so addictive you couldn't even go without it for a couple of hours. Here I was, choosing coffins, and you were fucking him. I think you need to sort out your priorities, Hermione."

Hermione's hand slapped against John's check leaving an angry red mark. John only smirked, his eyes dark and hard.

"How does is feel, hmm? To sleep with a murderer?"

"Sherlock didn't kill Mary."

"The hell he didn't!" John hissed. "Mary's dead because Sherlock couldn't keep his mouth shut."

"Mary jumped in front of the bullet. Sherlock couldn't know what was going to happen."

John looked at her for a second before he balled his fists, his eyes bloodshot.

"John, please."

"Why does he always have to be forgiven of everything?" He forcefully grabbed her arm. His face was inches away from hers, and his mouth smelled like whisky. Hermione tried to pry away, but John's iron grip kept her firmly in place.

"Mary's blood is on Sherlock's Holmes hands. And you not only go to him first, you also reward him."

"Let go, John." He did not move, and in a split of a second, her wand was in her hand and had rested under his chin.

"Come on, Granger. Do it." He pressed his jaw further onto the tip. "Your boyfriend has already killed my wife, why don't you finish the job?"

Hermione's anger was still sizzling in her skin when John released her and turned to retrieve his glass. Hermione breathed out shakily but kept her wand in her hand.

"Sherlock has killed for you, for Mary and you so you could have a future. He was willing to give his life for yours. You told me years ago, John. Sherlock saved you. He's not a bad person."

John took a swing of his glass and looked at the frame on the mantle. "You know what? That doesn't matter. The past doesn't matter. My wife, the mother of my child, is dead. And unless that freak show of your magic has a trick you haven't shared, she is going to stay that way."

"I would have done something if there was a tiny chance to save her."

They stayed in silence while John picked a photo of Mary and Rosie.

"When is the funeral?"

"I don't want you there."

"Listen to me, Watson." This time it was Hermione who forced John to turn. "Before she was anything to you, she was everything to me. She was part of my life before she was part of yours."

"Get out, Hermione. Go back to lick Mycroft's feet or Sherlock's or whatever you do for earning a salary. But I don't want you near Rosie or me ever again."

"Look at you, all high and mighty, when you made Mary's last days as miserable as they could be." There was a venom in Hermione's voice that she had never heard. Before turning to leave, she added. "Playing the sad widow might work with Mrs Hudson and Molly, but John, we are all at fault, you included."